Puslapio vaizdai

A few corrections of later date have been added. -Henceforward the author must be occupied

by studies of a very different kind.

Ite hinc, CAMONE! Vos quoque ite, suaves,
Dulces CAMENE! Nam (fatebimur verum)
Dulces fuistis!-Et tamen meas chartas
Revisitote: sed pudenter et raro!

VIRGIL. Catalect. vii.

At the request of the friends of my youth, who still remain my friends, and who were pleased with the wildness of the compositions, I have added two school-boy poemswith a song modernized with some additions from one of our elder poets. Surely, malice itself will scarcely attribute their insertion to any other motive, than the wish to keep alive the recollections from early life.--I scarcely knew what title I should prefix to the first. By imaginary Time, I meant the state of a school boy's mind when on his return to school he projects his being in his day dreams, and lives in his next holidays, six months hence: and this I contrasted with real Time.



An Allegory.

On the wide level of a mountain's head,

(I knew not where, but 'twas some faery place) Their pinions, ostrich-like for sails outspread, Two lovely children run an endless race,

A sister and a brother!

This far outstript the other;

Yet ever runs she with reverted face,

And looks and listens for the boy behind:

For he, alas! is blind!

O'er rough and smooth, with even step he pass'd,

And knows not whether he be first or last,


A Christmas Tale, told by a School-boy to his little Brothers and Sisters.

Underneath a huge oak tree

There was, of swine, a huge company,
That grunted as they crunch'd the mast:
For that was ripe, and fell full fast.

Then they trotted away, for the wind grew high:
One acorn they left, and no more might you spy.
Next came a raven, that liked not such folly:

He belonged, it was said, to the witch Melancholy!
Blacker was he than blackest jet,


Flew low in the rain, and his feathers not wet.

He pick'd up the acorn and buried it strait

By the side of a river both deep and great.
Where then did the raven go?

He went high and low,

Over hill, over dale, did the black raven go,

Many autumns, many springs
Travell'd he with wandering wings.
Many summers, many winters-

I can't tell half his adventures.

At length he came back, and with him a she,
And the acorn was grown to a tall oak tree.
They built them a nest in the topmost bough,
And young ones they had, and were happy enow.
But soon came a woodman, in leathern guise,
His brow, like a pent-house, hung over his eyes.
He'd an ax in his hand, not a word he spoke,
But with many a hem! and a sturdy stroke,

At length be brought down the poor raven's own oak. His young ones were kill'd: for they could not depart, And their mother did die of a broken heart.

The boughs from the trunk the woodman did sever— And they floated it down on the course of tne river.

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Seventeen or eighteen years ago, an artist of some celebrity was so pleased with this doggerel, that he amused himself with the thought of making a Child's Picture Book of it; but he could not hit on a picture for these four lines. I suggested a round-about with four seats, and the four seasons, as children, with Time for the shew-man.

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